


Duckeye just doesn't have the same flair

by thefrogg



Series: First We Take Manhattan [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Animal Transformation, I swear, It's New York City, It's all Ralkana's Fault, Multiple Crossovers, The Author Blames Feelschat for Everything, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be just a training exercise.</p><p>"Just a training exercise" needs to be re-categorized as a warning label.</p><p>Or:   In which Clint gets unwittingly adopted by a few other NYC based fandoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).



"Does anyone have eyes on Hawkeye?" Phil asked. "Where was his last confirmed location?"

"No eyes-on, last confirmed within three feet of you, Agent." Tony's voice was laced with the worry that Phil couldn't, wouldn't show.

The alley was empty of everything but an old, over-full dumpster, requisite piles of stained cardboard and other refuse. Rusty fire escapes climbed the building on one side.

"He's not here." There was nothing, no lost gear, arrows, comm unit, recognizable bootprints, anything. No scuff marks indicating a fight, either. A frisson of icy terror shivered its way down his spine and was swiftly suppressed. Clint was an Avenger, and one of the best agents Phil had ever worked with.

"Hawkeye, do you copy?"

The comm in his ear was echoingly silent; a strange peeping sound came from what appeared to be a pile of crumpled butcher paper before a tiny, pale yellow ball of fluff lurched out from underneath, wobbling drunkenly on unsteady feet.

Phil watched, blank-faced, as it shook itself, tottering dangerously before regaining its balance, looking up at him -- and up, and up -- and peeping imperiously before dashing across two feet-plus of grimy concrete and climbing his shoe. "Oh, no you don't." He picked up his foot just enough to wiggle it, sending the duckling tumbling to the ground with an indignant squeak.

The duckling stared up at him again, flapping stunted wings madly before grabbing the hem of one trouser leg in its beak and tugging.

"Hawkeye, come in, where the hell are you?" Phil said, louder. One hand rose to touch his comm.

More peeping, more tugging on his pantleg and trying to climb his shoe.

Phil shook himself free again, making sure the duckling's landing was gentle before stepping towards the mouth of the alley. The duck followed, wings held straight out for balance. "No sign of Hawkeye here. Anyone?"

The rest of the team chorused a worried negative; the duckling peeped and pecked at Phil's shoe.

"Going off-comm for a few minutes," Phil said, turning off his comm before any of the expected protests could come through. Then he looked down. "Where is your mother? And why am I talking to a duck?"

The duckling cuddled up to one foot, its body conforming to the curves in Phil's shoe as it stretched its neck up and peeped.

"I am not your mother," Phil said, then dropped his voice to a mutter of frustration. "God damnit, Barton. This is ridiculous." He bent carefully, slowly so as not to startle the ball of fluff fairly vibrating out of its down, and cupped one hand around and beneath it until it shifted its weight, tiny webbed feet resettling in his palm. "Let's get you home." Central Park was only a few blocks away, after all, and there wasn't much he could do about the human-smell contamination.

The duckling peeped again, sounding satisfied, before nosing gently at the skin of his wrist, the cuff of his suit jacket; its heart was a rapid flutter under thin skin radiating more warmth than seemed possible for a creature so small. Finishing its inspection, it blinked huge, dark eyes up at him, head wobbling on its slender neck, and promptly fell asleep.

Phil swallowed hard, steeling himself; it was only a duckling. Clint was still missing, and now he had to take this helpless creature back where it belonged and hope nothing ate it, hope it found its way back to its mother and wasn't rejected for smelling like soap and sweat and cordite.

The first step towards the park hurt worse than Loki's spear.

~~~

An especially deep breath tipped Clint sideways, and he startled awake, stubby wings flapping until he was upright again.

It didn't smell like cordite anymore, or Phil, or his suit. This was all grass and water and mulch, and strangers; dogs barking and muffled horse hooves in the distance.

A pair of ducks bobbed on the water nearby, half a dozen chicks strung behind them like corks on a line. Clint snorted, the sound squeaky even to his own ears, and looked up at the sun to orient himself.

Joggers ignored him, just swaying to one side or another to avoid squashing him; picnickers gave him a second glance, one or two tossing a torn bread crust nearby to be gobbled with the haste of the eternally hungry. He managed to stay out of reach of the few small children who caught sight of him, lone duckling on a mission to find his way home.


	2. Chapter 2

"Any sign of Hawkeye?" Coulson asked, well away from the park and comm back on.

"Not a clue, and where the hell have you been, Agent?" JARVIS' voice managed a stern _sir_ before cutting out in the background.

"Following a lead," _or returning one to the park,_ he didn't say. "It didn't pan out."

"I checked his last known, sir," Black Widow put in. "Tracked back to his original perch. No sign of a struggle, no sign of anything."

"All right." He sighed. "Head back to base, we'll keep a team on the lookout for him. Coulson out."

~~~

"--and the correlation between the trace elements of--"

"Wait," she interrupted sharply, reaching out one arm to block her partner's forward motion as she came to a swift and sudden stop.

"What is it?"

"There. There's a duckling trying to cross the street." She pointed.

"And this is important why? It's a duckling. This is completely irrelevant--"

"Just watch."

He paused, frowning, and tilted his head for a moment. "Why is that duckling watching the crosswalk signal?"

"Because it's trying to cross the street?"

"It's a _duckling."_

"And aliens invaded a few months ago."

"Are you trying to tell me there's an alien masquerading as a duckling wandering around Manhattan?"

"I'm saying there's something strange about that duckling. Like where's its mother?"

They watched as it dodged a few negligent pedestrians. Then, when the traffic light had changed and the crosswalk signal had gone from red hand to white figure, it looked left, then right, then left again, and darted across the street, wings flapping madly.

"That is no ordinary duckling."

"Do you suppose we should--"

"You're working on a case," she started.

"Yes, yes, I am, but it is a cold case, and rather dull, and this--this is _much_ more interesting." He straightened, then gave a half bow as if to usher her ahead of him. "Shall we?"

~~~

"What happened?"

"I don't know, Steve, he was there, then there was nothing on the comms, no chatter, _nothing."_ And wouldn't that sudden silence haunt him. "I left my position to check personally, and found no sign of him, or anyone else."

"Who were you talking to then?" Natasha didn't even look up at him, just kept sharpening the knife in her hands; that one, Phil knew, she kept in her left boot.

"Talking to?"

"You said, 'Oh, no you don't.' The comm was open. You were talking to someone or something."

Phil swallowed hard and looked down. "There was. There was a duckling trying to climb my shoe, I--"

The tension in the room spiked. "Clint disappears, and a duckling tries to climb your foot - where is it?" 

"I--" Phil looked up, swallowed, unable to meet anyone's eyes. "I took it back to Central Park, it wasn't--"

"All yellow? Yellow and brown? Black? What are we looking for?" Tony's words came in a torrent, hands already busy with his tablet. He snapped his fingers, waiting impatiently for an answer.

"Pale yellow. All fuzz. Small enough to fit in one hand. I--Oh god." Blood drained from his face so quickly Phil felt weak in the knees. "I left him there."

There was a gentle hand at his shoulder, guiding him to a chair. Phil followed helplessly, let Bruce ease him down, put his head between his knees and let himself shake.

Phil heard noise in the background, through the roaring of blood in his ears: Natasha talking to the SHIELD teams involved in the exercise; Tony directing JARVIS to roust out SI employees in the Tower; Steve asking for a layout of Central park and assigning search quadrants.

It was all he could do to point out the general area he'd left Clint sleeping.

"You okay?" Bruce had stayed, a bastion of calm in a sea of frantic planning.

"I'll never forgive--"

"Don't, Phil," Bruce said, "don't do that. We don't know if there's anything to forgive, yet, and I can't believe that Clint would be helpless out there even as a duckling." He managed a grim, lopsided smile. "You okay to go out with us and look?"

Phil took a deep breath and shook himself. "I'm not staying here. I'm the one--"

"Phil."

"Right. Let's do this" 

~~~

Clint managed half a block before a pair of shoes blocked his path; dodging around them became impossible as they moved with him, until he stopped entirely and craned his neck upward.

This wasn't Phil. Wasn't an Avenger, or Pepper, or a SHIELD agent, just a young woman in fashionable jeans and a colorful shirt, and her gentleman companion just now catching up despite his greater height and stride.

He peeped a complaint and tried to sidle sideways, only to have her mirror his steps again.

"I'm not going to hurt you. You're trying to get somewhere, though, right?" She lowered herself to her knees slowly, backing up enough that she didn't crush or crowd him, and held out a hand, palm up, low enough for him to step into.

One webbed foot scuffed the concrete sidewalk as he eyed her warily.

Her friend did not offer him a hand, but did speak up. "It is a most sincere offer of transportation, I assure you."

Clint peeped again, cocking his head side to side. Then, gingerly, he shuffled forward and hooked one foot over the side of her hand, steadied himself, and tumbled into her palm, settling with a shake that set all his fluff on end. He craned his neck back until he could see her, upside down though she was, and peeped again, as forcefully as he could.

"I do believe we have our marching orders."

Clint peeped a quiet agreement, unheard over her soft chuckle. "I do believe we have."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted to my tumblr waaaay back when; finally got around to adding it here.
> 
> I did my best geographically speaking with NYC and online maps; the streets and landmarks are real according to the maps I looked at, although there will be at least one or two made up ones somewhere along the route provided I get back to this.

Joan stood carefully, duckling cupped in both hands. ”Okay, we’re going south on Fifth Avenue. Let’s get out of the traffic path - there’s the Church of the Heavenly Rest. As long as we don’t go inside, we should be okay.”

The duckling peeped at her impatiently.

"Yes, yes, you’re trying to get somewhere, and I promise, we’ll help you. But you can understand us - we need to be able to understand you a little better than _you’re upset,_ and I’d rather not do that in the open, okay?”

Fluff puffed up and shook; a tiny beak scraped bare fingertips.

"One peep for yes and two for no would be the standard, I should think, but there are a few other things we’d like to be able to know, so, if you would, Miss Watson?"

"And off we go," Joan muttered, pulling the duckling into the shelter of her body. 

~~~

The ride was short, shorter than it would have been on his own two feet, Clint grudgingly admitted. The arching entrance was shelter from the sun, allowed the illusion of privacy as his…

He didn’t know what to call them, and peeped at them questioningly as they settled in the most-shadowed corner.

"My name’s Joan Watson," the woman carrying him said, as if to another human rather than a being small enough to fit in her cupped palms. "This is my friend Sherlock Holmes. We’re consulting detectives, and work with Captain Gregson of the NYPD on some of their more unusual cases."

Clint peeped at her.

"Hello, sir duckling. Would you have a name by which to refer you?" Sherlock looked eager, wiggling his fingers in an awkward wave as waited for an answer.

Clint peeped once.

"Does it start with a consonant?"

That got a blink. And a peep.

"B?"

Two peeps.

"C?"

Peep.

"C, okay. Connor. Carter. Christopher. Colin. Cole. Chase. Colt. Charles. Cade. Caleb. Is the second letter a consonant?" Sherlock finally asked, after Clint peeped a no to everything.

Clint peeped once, again, settling his fluff in relief.

"Okay, Christopher, Chase, and Charles are out. Second letter can’t be anything earlier than h."

Clint peeped twice.

"L? Clark. Clarence. Cliff. Clay. Clinton—"

Clint peeped once, then twice, then pulled his head down between his shoulder blades and batted his wings at Joan’s hands.

"Clinton, but not. Clint?"

Clint peeped an affirmative and rubbed his cheek against Joan’s thumb.

"Well, Clint, it is an honor to meet you. I have one other question."

Clint peeped again, propping his chin on the edge of her hand.

Joan swallowed visibly and licked her lips. ”It’s. I don’t exactly know how to put this without sounding either condescending or like an idiot. Would you mind being petted?” The effort it took to keep the question sounding normal was obvious.

That—

—was unexpected. Clint shuffled uncertainly, webbing dragging across the ridges of Joan’s palms and finally tilted his head back and forth, shifting his weight to her left hand, her off hand.

"Okay." Joan’s voice was a low whisper, choked. "Okay," she said again, left hand tilting to more fully support Clint’s slight weight.

Clint felt gentle fingers skim the back of his neck, between his wings, and shivered. His feet tucked beneath him, eyes closing in pleasure as her touch firmed, and he basked in the attention.

"Sherlock?"

Clint’s eyes blinked open as the petting stopped, leaving him feeling inexplicably lost.

"If you wouldn’t mind?" There was a note of yearning in Sherlock’s voice Clint couldn’t help but respond to, letting out a single peep in the brief moment before a more tentative hand closed in, bent knuckles combing down fluffed down.

The petting continued for a few moments, a few moments more, and then slowed as Clint went wobbly with sleep. He blinked huge eyes open at Sherlock’s awestruck thank you.

"Hm, well." Sherlock shuffled his feet a little, pinking at the ears. "I believe you had somewhere to get to? Shall we?"

Clint peeped once, then again, but really.

He just wanted to be petted some more. Getting home…he’d get there. Eventually.

Petting he didn’t get enough of.

Ever.


End file.
